


Testament of Youth

by wobblyheadeddollcaper



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wobblyheadeddollcaper/pseuds/wobblyheadeddollcaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurens and Hamilton, the two angriest young men in Washington's army, continually fail to fight each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Testament of Youth

They meet for the first time at a billet in New Haven.

“Colonel Laurens, meet Colonel Hamilton. You’ll be serving together as my aides-de-camp. You’re sharing a room upstairs. Leave your packs there and come straight down, we have work to do.”

“Yes sir,” their voices overlap, and Laurens stands aside to allow Hamilton up the stairs.

“We had best be friends, then,” Hamilton says, grinning at him, and Laurens smiles back.

“I am John. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Alexander,” Hamilton says, offering his hand. His handshake is quick, business-like. “And now to work.”

*

“South Carolina?”

“My father has a plantation there. I am an abolitionist myself,” Laurens says, looking Hamilton in the eye, trying to ignore the flutter of his own heartbeat. It never becomes easy, no matter how many people he tells. Too many poor responses. Hamilton is from New York, though, surely he must at least be neutral.

“Me too,” Hamilton says, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“I have an idea,” Laurens says, and that is how he tells Hamilton about his plan for a battalion of freed slaves. He gets various reactions. Most people in the revolutionary army in the North are politely encouraging for a minute, and then turn the talk to something else.

“I’ll help,” Hamilton says. “I spent a great deal of time writing revolutionary essays, but the situation is its own persuader now. Publius put down his pen when Harlem fell.”

“Publius? You’re too young, surely.”

Hamilton bares his teeth in a challenging smile.

“Why should I lie? Do you want my help or not?”

“No offence meant! It would be most welcome – they were good essays.”

*

“I would not drive a mule in the way you’ve been driving yourself,” Hamilton says shortly, brushing the rain off his wool coat at the entrance of the tent before he fastens it behind him. Laurens bends over his letter and makes no reply. Washington’s command tent has two camp tables, paper and ink, candles. There is no more convenient place to write a letter after the press of the day’s business has passed.

“Whom do you write to?”

“My father.” Laurens stops to mend his pen.

“Will he help with the battalion?”

“Perhaps.” Laurens mouth twists downwards, to show how slim a chance he thinks it is. His father is a good man, but he has the Continental Congress to manage.

“Still more chance if you write than if you do not,” Hamilton says, nodding. “Who else?”

“Essay on liberty for publication in Carolina. I have some notes made.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Hamilton sits at the other table, carefully folding away the map there, and opening the inkpot. “Where are your notes?”

“What happened to the mule?”

“Well, I would have to be the greatest hypocrite unhung to complain further about your working too much. Come, you write yours and I mine, and then we may have time to sleep before Himself wakes up and calls for us again.”

Laurens takes over his scant half-page of notes, then returns to his own table and letter.

“I thought the title might be ‘With one coin we buy two freedoms’.”

“I’ll see if anything better comes to mind,” Hamilton says with a carelessness quite free of intended insult, already on the third sentence. “These numbers are correct?”

“Yes, from the most recent reports.”

“They scarcely convey the horror of the thing, do they.”

“That’s your part,” Laurens says, looking up to smile at him.

“Yes, I could have made quite the novelist, if I wrote macabre fictions instead of macabre facts. Hurry up, Laurens, it’s near midnight.”

They finish in companionable silence – and how the devil Hamilton manages to write a whole essay while Laurens is finishing one letter, Laurens cannot think.

“Well, your father may require more care in persuading him than Senatus et Populusque.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Fathers always see one as a child.”

“If you say so,” Hamilton says with a strained lightness, and busies himself with replacing the map he had folded away. Laurens takes a couple of moments to realise his error, and a couple more to decide that an apology would raise more trouble than it settled. ‘Do forgive me Alex, I had quite forgot you are a bastard…’ No, certainly not.

They clear away the debris of writing and head out into the rain and dark, striking out for their tent. The camp is quiet, waiting out the rain with sleep. They have the inexpressible luxury of a tent only for two, though on a chill night like this the luxury is notional at best. Still, the aides-de-camp keep long hours, and no-one like to be woken by having wakeful young men barging into their tent at all hours.

“Perhaps the rain will have stopped by morning,” Laurens offers in a murmur, brushing the worst of the wet off his coat before going inside. There is no question of taking off any more than their boots tonight. It’s cold and the enemy may be near.

“Perhaps it will be summer come again,” Hamilton murmurs back, “and King George will bugger himself with a-“ Laurens snorts.

“Yes, and General Howe will become a Catholic priest and renounce all worldly goods-“

“You cannot have met many priests, John,” Hamilton says, sounding world-weary.

“You are very old and sententious for one-and-twenty, Alexander.”

“I’ve earned it. Not least in chasing after you and your essays, oh learned elder of twenty-two.”

“You don’t have to join me every night – “

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“Even if I make you lose sleep before a battle?” Laurens has these doubts, sometimes. He rarely voices them, even to Hamilton. His goal is right and he knows it. This kind of certainty can come only from God or madness, and he is quite sure that he is not mad.

“What, are we to wait for a more convenient season to give Liberty her voice?”

“Who exactly do you think are you arguing with?”

“Then we are of one mind. You don’t drag me anywhere I do not drag myself.”

“Good, then.”

“Good.”

Laurens casts about for something else to say, but he has used up all his eloquence for the day on making arguments to his father. He reaches out in the dark to touch Hamilton’s shoulder instead.

“Thanks for coming to get me. Sleep well.”

“Any day. Sleep well.”

The morning dawns fair and dewy as the notional country maids of England. They wake with the trumpets at reveille. They do not pause to reflect that to wake before seven in fresh alertness, despite staying up writing till after midnight, is a gift of youth. They take it for granted. Years away, Hamilton will look back at this blithe acceptance and ache for it.

*

Winter is harsh. When General Washington tells them to draw lots for which horses are to be killed, Laurens is aware only of an overwhelming relief. Hamilton’s horse is one of the first to be eaten, so they trade off on riding John’s Atticus when the army is on the move. At night Laurens feels his stomach cleave to his ribs.

“The one thing you can say for this war,” Laurens says, as they trudge over to Washington’s tent again, “aside from the justness of our cause, is that promotion is wonderfully fast.”

“I was a captain for three whole months before I became a lieutenant-colonel,” Hamilton says. “What agonies of waiting you dismiss.”

“Oh, I do apologise, Colonel Hamilton sir.”

“Your apology is accepted, Colonel Laurens, sir.”

Laurens is attached to Lafayette’s command for the next battle, and throws himself into the fight with a single-minded passion. He is surprised to discover that his head is bleeding, once all the redcoats are dead.

“If you were trying to be killed, you have lost no opportunity today,” Lafayette says, smiling at him.

“Thank you, sir.” Laurens dabs carefully at his head. The cut is under his hair, and easily concealed once the blood has been washed off his face.

“Next time, try to defend yourself even a little bit, s’il vous plait. A good fight, though, hein? And look! Our men seem to have found some food.”

“The spoils of victory.”

“La victoire. We shall eat well tonight.”

Laurens brings Hamilton a boiled egg, and Hamilton’s eyes light up at the sight of it. His face has grown thinner, though his small frame never had much flesh to lose. His eyes remain brilliant, his face still mobile in gratitude and stony in anger.

Later that month, Hamilton leaves the camp for some time, and returns with a ham.

“Wealth indeed! How on earth did you manage it?”

“I have some of my pay saved. And the farmer’s daughter was a very, very generous young woman.” He tries, and fails, to look less than smug. Laurens finds it endearing.

“You lucky dog. Who shall we invite?”

“Lafayette, of course – we should set some aside for Washington. We can eat tonight and then sneak it into the soup tomorrow, give it a bit of flavor.”

Lafayette pronounces it a noble ham, the spoils of amour, and contributes a bottle of wine. It’s enough, on their present rations, to make them all quite light-headed. Laurens wakes cotton-mouthed the next morning, Lafayette snoring next to him and Hamilton sprawled across them both, and feels like the luckiest man alive.

*

“You challenged Lee. You challenged General Lee? You madman.” Hamilton claps him on the shoulder.

“Will you-“

“Of course I will, who’s his second? He was asking for it.” They both love Washington as something more distant and incorruptible than a father.

“Edwards. I’ll not shoot to kill - just make him apologise.”

Hamilton nods in agreement. “No sense in doing King George’s work for him, although we might be better off.”

“This is exactly the discretion and sympathy I need in a second.”

“I can be diplomatic! Just not with you.” They turn as de Lafayette walks into the house.

“Hamilton is diplomatic now? Mon Dieu.”

*

Washington shakes his head.

“You are as bad as each other. Undisciplined, inflammatory behaviour. You could scarcely better aid the British. Thank God de Lafayette was not with you.”

“Sir-“

“I have not finished.” His voice is quiet, even, and controlled. “Restrain each other in future. You have had the wildest good luck that Lee has not chosen to complain of you. Defending me as you would a woman is more insult than he has ever shown me.”

He sees that the lesson has hit home. Laurens looks pinched about the mouth, and Hamilton has gone pale beneath his sallow tan.

“Dismissed.” They both have, at least, wit not to argue further, though Hamilton is clearly brewing some apology behind his brow.

*

They are at a tavern, the three of them, when Hamilton’s head goes up like a hound’s.

“Excuse me,” he says, and pushes his chair away. Laurens thinks he must have need of a piss, and doesn’t watch him go. A few moments later, Lafayette grabs his arm.

“Say that again,” Hamilton shouts. “You cur, say that again.”

“What, so you can-“

“What’s happening, Ham?” Laurens says loudly.

“I don’t like this man’s face, Laurens,” Hamilton says, staring at a man in a brown jacket. He has three or four friends around him, and a healthy country look, choler beginning to rise. “And he appears to be making a number of stupid errors in his speech.”

“What kind of errors?” Laurens says lazily, cracking his knuckles.

“I know you, you’re that other one. Washington’s boys: the Marquis, the son of Henry Laurens, and this little bastard-“

“Mes amis,” Lafayette says, having flanked the table to appear on the man’s other side.

“- we were just saying,” the man says more quietly, starting to look a little nervous now that the odds are even “that Hamilton must have some interest with General Washington. To be on his staff.”

“Interest.” Hamilton’s voice is deadly cold. “Perhaps someone needs to explain the concept of republican, meritocratic promotion to you. Everyone likes a little revolutionary philosophy of an evening.”

“We could start with the short words,” Laurens adds.

“No harm meant,” one of the other men says, leaning across. “We’re all for the revolution here.” He’s wearing a lieutenant colonel’s stripes. “It’s good to see you again, Alexander.”

“Aaron Burr,” Hamilton says, some of the reptilian coolness seeping out of his gaze. “Always the peacemaker. Would your friend care to apologise?”

“Errors,” says the man in the brown jacket, trying to keep Lafayette and Laurens both in his field of view while not looking away from Hamilton. “Ill-informed. Beg your pardon for any offence.”

“Your apology is accepted. I’m sure Burr can recommend some informative reading. To, ah, prevent future errors.” Hamilton looks over at Laurens. “What do you think?”

“Another drink,” Lafayette says, moving away from the table.

“Why not.” Hamilton starts to leave. Laurens turns as well, but then hears someone else at the table mutter:

“His bastard or catamite-“ and without conscious thought leans over to grab the man’s collar and throw him onto the floor.

“Looks like someone wants a philosophy lesson after all.” He kicks the man as he scrabbles to his knees. “Since challenging you would do you far too much honor.”

“Good lord,” Burr says, covering his face. “Take it outside, at least.”

Hamilton tugs at his elbow. “Come on, John. Let him get up.” Laurens does so, and Hamilton waits until he’s standing before punching him in the face. The man goes down like a sack of flour.

“We should probably leave this den of idiocy now,” Hamilton says. “Adieu, Burr.”

“Godspeed,” Burr says with faint exasperation. The three of them wander out into the night, Lafayette still holding his drink. They are conspicuously not hurrying, but no-one from the table comes out to join them. Lafayette sighs.

“I suppose we shall have to go and find another fight now, or Laurens will not sleep.”

“You want to get a chance to punch somebody, you mean.” Hamilton rubs his knuckles.

“I would prefer swords.”

“Oh well, then I can think of a few British who will oblige you tomorrow.” Hamilton is still frowning. “Is that what people say about me?”

“Those espece de cons do not know anything, Alexander. We all know why you were chosen.” Lafayette puts his hand over his heart. “We, who are the revolution.”

“After the war-“

“After the war you’ll still be Colonel Hamilton, and they’ll still be no-one,” Laurens says firmly. “You’ve proved yourself a hundred times. Come on, back to the billet.”

Hamilton is in a foul mood all the walk back.

*

“I read that letter of yours about the hurricane on St Croix,” Laurens says weeks later, suddenly reminded by some obscure train of thought.

“Good Lord,” Hamilton laughs, a small, ugly thing. “Mere juvenalia, John. Forebear to judge my works by that.”

“You may not have had as much practice then, but your talent shines through.”

“Well, when God offers one such compelling material, what else can one do.” Hamilton bends over his letter to Congress again, avoiding Laurens’ eyes. “Where did you find that letter?”

“An old copy of the gazette in one of my billets when I was chasing Lee around. It was quite a consolation to me, finding a friend’s writing.”

Hamilton coughs and looks away.

“Well – then I am glad you found it.”

“It sounded… bad.”

“Oh, it was. Threw us into barbarism overnight, and the wind was like standing in a cannon’s mouth. Do you think we shall move out today?”

Laurens accepts the redirection, and they talk of other things. Later, when they are turning in for the night, Hamilton says quietly:

“If not for that letter, I would still be clerking in St Croix.”

“You would not.”

“There was a public subscription to get me to New York. I could have missed everything.”

“What, all this starvation and mud?”

“The revolution. The chance I have - we have to overthrow the world and set our own ideals on high. You.” Hamilton gives a short laugh. “The pay won’t be bad either, if we ever establish a proper currency.”

“You would not have missed the revolution. You’re too intelligent to believe that.” The thought sends a chill down his spine anyway. Perhaps it’s Laurens who doesn’t want to believe he could have so easily never met Hamilton. “I’m glad you wrote it, anyway.”

“Don’t… tell anyone.”

“Never.” Theirs is still, for now, an aristocratic revolution. Being Hamilton’s friend has made Laurens quicker to see the traces of it. He won’t give ammunition to the enemy. “Because it matters to you, and not because it matters to me.”

“I know” Laurens sees the gleam of Hamilton’s smile in the darkness. “I do know. Sleep well, John.”

“God rest you, Alexander.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Musical characters, but meeting in accordance with the historical record during the war rather than before it.


End file.
